In the staffroom, I encountered Linda, a can of SlimFast and a Double Decker wrapper laid before her on the table.

‘I’m sorry about before, Linda. I just really needed to take my medication.’

She hauled herself up, dropped the foil and can into the bin. ‘Dr Stevens asked to see you after his patients this afternoon.’

Once she’d left, the cheese of my sandwich tickled the back of my throat, forcing me to retch into the sink.

The atmosphere in reception was as if I’d turned up to the funeral of a person I’d murdered. Not that I’d do that. Linda misguidedly thought ignoring me was a punishment. Alison was scared to talk, which, again, was a result. But within the stilled hush, it was difficult for me to disguise my fear. My mouth had stopped producing saliva, so I nursed a glass of water. Sipping, sipping, sipping, going over why you’d want to see me. There was no relief. None of the options was good. All of them boiled down to the same origin. The bad things I’d done.

I gathered the papers I’d copied for Dr Short in his absence and told Linda I was taking them to his room. Diverting to the toilet, I closed the door and pushed two fingers down my throat to empty myself of whatever was sitting there making me swim. The relief wasn’t as profound as I’d hoped as I wiped the specks off my chin and splashed my face with water.

Dr Short’s office was different to the rest of you doctors’. Especially yours. It looked barely used. Sterile. He usually brought his mug to the staffroom at the end of each day and washed it. The only non-arsehole. Though that day it was still there. Cold black coffee with a white swirling film.

When placing the file on his desk, I noticed a cupboard hadn’t been closed properly. As I went to press it shut, I was faced with packs of needles and blood test tubes. A memory punched me. Of Mum. Her visible upset whenever they brought the tray. How they failed to penetrate her collapsing veins with the needle. Her no-fuss silent tears as they tried the second time. Third. Fourth. The different nurse brought over to help. The false bonhomie.

I reached inside. Took one of the needle-tip packs between my fingers. Recalled the suspended bags. Drip, drip, drip. The chatting, flicking magazine pages, eating biscuits. A normal day out. The most abnormal day out. And before I knew it, I’d tucked the needle under my cardigan sleeve and was walking back towards the toilet.